


An Age of Heroes, An Age of Anarchy

by Nalledia



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Alduin isnt really dead, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amoral Characters, F/F, F/M, Future Tamriel, Homosexuality, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Longish chapters, M/M, Multi, Multi POV, OCs everywhere, Racism, Side of Romance, So many OCs, X3, i forgot about Rumarene's issues, i killed the dragonborn, literal side, nervous/anxious characters, racial superiority, the thalmor won, the whole thing, this fic is my temperamental baby, this is another old af fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 16:44:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13035285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nalledia/pseuds/Nalledia
Summary: It's late Fifth Era, centuries after Alduin's defeat at the hands of the Dragonborn. Dragons have once again vanished, and there is relative peace in Tamriel. But a radical group of werewolves is about to change all that: they have found a way to return the World-Eater to Nirn. Now, saving the world falls on the shoulders of many: the good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful. AUFull summary inside





	1. Prologue: The End of an Age

**Author's Note:**

> It is now the late Fifth Era, and almost a thousand years have passed since Alduin's defeat; the last few surviving dragons had been hunted, killed and nests destroyed, by the Blades and others. Paathurnax and Odahviing have vanished, and not even the Greybeards know where they have gone. The Thieves Guild has regained its luck; there are whispers that the Dark Brotherhood survived – stronger than ever – despite being almost completely wiped out by the Penitus Oculatus. The Stormcloaks had been defeated by the Empire, but still a few scattered raids on Imperial camps are planned and executed with terrible accuracy by Ulfric Stormcloak’s descendants. Many are already forgetting the ancient Nord legend of the Thu'um, the Dragonborn who had wielded it; and the Thalmor are taking most of the credit for the slaying of the World-Eater, saying this Dragonborn had been an agent of theirs, carefully shaped and trained to destroy the threat – assuming, of course, that someone had done enough digging or lived long enough to remember the tale of the Dragonborn.
> 
> But, when Alduin died, his spirit travelled to Hircine's Hunting Grounds: a radical group of werewolves – hidden from even the Companions – have found a way to bring him back, and are doing everything in their power to do just that – believing they can harness his power for their own use, to produce a supreme group to rule the world and end the Aldemeri Dominion: a group comprised of only werewolves. And this time, saving the world doesn't fall on the shoulders of a single mortal of a single race and creed: but on many, from all walks of Tamriel – the good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful.

**Prologue: The End of an Age**

 

_4E205_

Thonro roared at the great, black dragon just as loud as the beast when ebony claws ripped right through his armor. “ _Krii, lun AUS!_ ” he bellowed, grimly satisfied when the dragon screeched in pain. His companions closed in, and he recognized the long blonde hair belonging to Gormlaith Golden-Hilt as she stormed past, screaming fiercely as she threw her sword arm down on the dragon’s wing tip.

Alduin screeched in rage and pain, swinging his head around to snap at the shield-maiden.

“ _Joor, zah FRUL!_ ” Thonro roared back, grimly pleased when Alduin’s maw turned to the sky as the dragon’s screech turned to whine. _Mortality truly_ is _devastating,_ Thonro thought, following after Gormlaith and swinging down Dragonbane, pleased with the ‘thud’ and ‘squelch’ and singing blade as he hacked off the wing Gormlaith had attacked. Alduin snarled and screeched, rising on his powerful legs to turn. His tail whipped out at them, flinging them away from the dragon.

Gormlaith landed on Thonro with a groan, her ancient greatsword flying out of her hands. “Sorry, Dragonborn,” she gasped, heaving herself upright.  
Thonro grunted when her armor dug into his ebony armor, and he rolled upright, looking for Dragonbane. He found it a little ways off, running towards it to join Ysgramor and Tsun in attacking Alduin. The World-Eater was earth-bound now that he only had one wing, but the dragon’s fury was no less.

If anything, it had doubled.

“ _Joorre, zu’u fen krii hi pah! Zu’u fen du lein! Du Keizaal!_ ” Alduin roared, lifting his maw to the sky. “ _Strun, qo BAH!_ ”

“ _Lok, vah KOOR!_ ” the Tongues shouted, and Felldir added, “ _Joor, zah FRUL!_ ”

Alduin was proving more difficult to fell than they had anticipated.

“ _Yol, toor SHUL_!” Thonro felt the heat of the flames as he breathed out, engulfing the World-Eater for a short moment. He buried Dragonbane in the World-Eater’s shoulder, only to have the dragon bite into him, crushing and piercing his armor. Thonro roared in pain, dimly hearing Gormlaith and Hakon call his name. He snarled in pain, grasping tightly to his blade as Alduin pulled him away, gathering his strength to drive the sword into the dragon’s neck, behind the jaw. Alduin writhed, shaking Thonro and flung him to one side.

The Tongues and Tsun gathered around the World-Eater, seizing the chance Thonro had opened. He was dimly aware of the World-Eater shrieking, and the sound of four Voices uniting against the dragon. Thonro shut his eyes against the pain, desperately wanting to get away from the pain, but unable to move. “No, Alduin!” Hakon roared, the sound of a weapon being tossed against rock ringing through Sovngarde. “Godsdammit, Thonro was right!”

A shadow hovered near Thonro, and he opened his eyes.

“Dragonborn, your time is near,” Tsun knelt beside the Nord, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. The pain subsided almost immediately. “It is best if you remain within Sovngarde –”  
“I cannot,” Thonro huffed out. “I promised – promised _her_ I – I –” Thonro heaved a breath against the pain. “I promised her I would return. I have to go back for her.”

Tsun’s face turned sombre. “Very well, Friend, Dragonborn. You shall be welcomed into Sovngarde with open arms, and you will join us in Shor’s Hall. Return now, to the One Who Waits for You. _Nahl, daal VUS_!”

 

* * * * * * *

 

The sudden change from warm, soft soil to cold, wet snow jarred Thonro, and it took him a while to realise he was at the peak of the Throat of the World.

“ _Thonro_!”

He turned sluggishly to the sound of his woman’s panicked voice calling his name. “Aela…” he breathed with a smile. His green-eyed huntress looked so perfect, her loose red hair fighting for a life of its own, her hunting paint streaked and distorted by the cold and tears. She fell to her knees in the snow beside him, her hands hovering over his chest, unsure as to where she should apply pressure. “Oh, Shor help me….”  
Thonro chuckled despite himself. “He already has, Aela. There’s not much more he can do for me.” He lifted his hand slowly, gently touching and caressing her face. She clasped his hand to her cheek, squeezing her eyes shut against tears. “Aela, there is something I must tell you, and time is short.”  
“No, you’ll live through this, you stubborn oaf, I –”  
“Aela,” he interrupted gently. He didn’t feel the burning ache anymore…. She fell silent, her brow furrowed, first in denial, and now in frustration at his stubbornness. “Aela, listen carefully. Alduin is not dead. I don’t think he _can_ be killed,” he smiled gently at Aela, hoping to ease away the frown she wore on her face. “But I also believe it should be fairly difficult for him to return here – I believe he may have been forced to a Daedric Prince’s realm. Which one, I do not know. But I do not believe he will be free to leave as he wishes.”  
A harsh gust of wind followed by a thud announced the arrival of a dragon. Aela turned to look, and her face lit up with hope as she barked, “Odahviing! Fetch one of the Greybeards! _NOW_!” she glanced back at Thonro, touching his face gingerly. “There’s still time!”  
“ _Geh, lokaliin do Dovahkiin_ ,” he hummed, rising and beating his wings against the gale around the Throat of the World.  
“Aela….”  
“No, you stubborn idiot. You listen to me, no –”  
“Aela, promise me you will tell the right people about this when the time comes, promise me!”  
Her eyes widened, and she quickly nodded. I promise, Thonro. I swear on the Nine and Hircine, that I will tell those who must know when the time comes.”  
Thonro closed his eyes. The fight had been so long…. But he forced them open to look at _her_. “You will also need to give these people the journal I left in Jorvaskr, and tell them, that they will need to find another fourteen journals, scattered throughout Skyrim, before they will be able to stop Alduin for a second time. I separ-separated them that none can use the information to its counter: bringing Alduin back,” he shuddered as he breathed in, finding a weight settle on his chest.

Aela snorted, shaking her head with a small smile and brushing his blonde hair away from his face, her fingers tracing the spiral tattoo on his face. “If this is your idea of keeping a promise, Thonro, a promise that you will return to me alive and well, then we need to redefine that.” Thonro smiled, a brief, low chuckle escaping him when Aela managed an honest smile as well. He dragged his thumb over her cheek, grateful she still held his hand to her face. “I will do as you ask, Thonro.”

“Thank you, Aela,” he smiled, turning his head to kiss the palm of her hand.

“ _Dovahkiin_!” voices chorused, with Odahviing landing nearby. Arngeir leapt off the dragon, stumbling through the thick snow before hurrying over to Thonro.

Thonro turned back to his lover. “Aela, I love you.”  
Her chin quivered as she fought back tears. “You stubborn, bear of a Nord. You’ll be here for a long time still.”

“I will do what I can to save you, Thonro,” Arngeir knelt in the snow.

“I want you live a long, and happy life, Aela – find someone to love, who can be there for you in ways I wasn’t, and can’t be,” Thonro murmured, pulling his hand away from her face, hoping she would hear him above the howling winds.  
“Don’t be a fool, Thonro,” she started, her voice breaking and her eyes brimming with tears. “You have to stay – you can’t just leave me here, by myself. Thonro!”

Aela grasped his shoulders, shaking him, ignoring the tears that fell onto her cheeks. “Thonro? Thonro!” she turned on the Greybeard, snarling at him “Don’t just _sit there_! Do something! Bring him back!”  
“I’m afraid there is nothing more I can do, Child. He is no longer among the living,” Arngeir reached out to squeeze her shoulder.

“ _Lok, Thu’um, Dovahkiin_ ,” Paarthurnax hummed sadly, moving closer to shelter the two mortals from the gale.  
“ _Pruzah wundunne_ ,” Odahviing added.

Aela pressed her face to Thonro’s chest, grief crashing over her as she cried.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Most of Skyrim had attended the week-long funeral, held at High Hrothgar. The civil war had been put on hold, factions with petty arguments and any infighting was forgotten in the wake of the Dragonborn’s death. Even one of the Thalmor had made the effort to send the finest quality Elven greatsword and battle axe to be buried with Thonro. Aela suspected it was that one Justiciar Thonro had called a friend….

Jarl Ulfric had walked to Thonro’s body beside General Tullius, Galmar and Legate Rikke stood side by side to pay their respects; Hold Guards and thieves, suspected assassins and Penitus Oculatus agents, Companions and Mages, the Blades and even a few of the Forsworn had all gathered, united as one with the death of Skyrim’s greatest hero. The ceremony was nothing special, presided over by the Greybeards and one of each of the Eight Divines’ priests, Heimskr there as an honorary member to avoid the Thalmor’s gaze.

Elisif had made many of the arrangements concerning travel from the many Holds, and offered Aela a consoling smile and embrace when she passed the huntress.

Farkas stood beside Aela throughout the ceremony, and when her shoulders shook, he placed a large hand on her shoulder, offering a comforting squeeze.

Thonro was interred as a High King, and Paarthurnax and Odahviing had helped erect a Word Wall for him at the peak of the Throat of the World, where Thonro was laid to rest. Few stayed behind in the monastery when Thonro was moved; those who braved the elements watched the dragons gathered at the peak give their own ceremony to honor the fallen Dovahkiin.

Their Thu’um could be heard throughout Skyrim:

“ _Aaz hah so! Lok, thu’um! Dovahkiin! Pruzah wundunne! Drem, Dovahkiin_!”

 

* * * * * * *

 

Aela was named Harbinger of the Companions several months later, when Kodlak Whitemane died, and Farkas became her second.

The huntress never married, never bore children. And only on her dying day, did she tell her successor of Thonro, and his journals, and what must be done should the World-Eater return. And when she awoke again in Hircine’s Hunting Grounds, she cursed her beastblood for keeping her from Sovngarde.

 

* * * * * * *

 

_5E798, Temple of Miraak, Solstheim_

The Dunmer werewolf hunched over a Black Book, the ethereal green and brown-black tendrils holding him in place while he wandered through Apocrypha, the realm of Hermaeus Mora, Daedric Prince of Fate, Time and Secrets.

With a gasp, he returned to his body, the tendrils slowly releasing him. _So, Alduin was a dragon, and was real, and there is indeed a way to bring him back, after the World-Eater escaped to Hircine’s Hunting Grounds, trapped there by the Prince of the Hunt. Perhaps it is time our plan be acted upon, perhaps it is time I gathered the knowledge I need to fulfil the desire of the pack…._

The Dunmer raised his head in time to see a great abyss open before him. “I am yours to command, Lord Hermaeus Mora, I swear fealty to you, that I may grow my knowledge and add to yours.”

_I… accept your fealty…. Mortal_ , the slow, deep voice of the Prince echoed through his mind.

The Dunmer smiled.


	2. A New Age Has Dawned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So many POVs. Forgive me

**Chapter One: A New Age Has Dawned**

 

_5E799, College of Winterhold, Winterhold_

Iingae jolted awake in a cold sweat, panting heavily. The auburn-haired Bosmer ran her fingers through her damp hair shakily, feeling herself shiver despite the warmth in her room at the College of Winterhold. Her fingers traced the twisted, rope of a scar on her right cheekbone, and followed it down to the next one, running along the corner of her mouth to her chin. It was a nervous habit to trace them, and it was because of her scars she had found a determination to study magic and protect herself – Iingae could still feel the cold burn of glass cutting her open, still see the absolute hate and fury of her father as he had smashed the bottle on her face. It wasn’t her fault her mother had died, was it? Iingae shook herself from those dark thoughts – she didn’t need to cry now, and she would. The dream – _the prophecy_ – saw to that. It wasn’t anything tangible, but the feelings were strong: fear, death, rage and horror, and Iingae was sure the unmistakable sense of utter doom was lurking in the darkness as well.

Since last year, her prophetic dreams had grown in frequency and accuracy, and it frightened her to the point where she considered making a potion for dreamless sleep. But something told Iingae that wouldn’t help, so she had put it off, over and over again. But this was different – she could feel it. She needed to speak to the Arch-Mage, and find out what exactly caused her dreams, and find out if she could stop them, or if she couldn’t stop it, at least learn to control it. It was still dark, probably midnight, but Iingae couldn’t wait until morning. This dream had put too much fear in her, had given her a drive to act, and act _now_. She swung out of her bed, her bare feet touching the soft fur gingerly, seeking her shoes in the dark. She didn’t want to wake the others just yet – she would be able to move through the hall without light. Iingae kicked her feet into her fur-lined ankle boots, snatching up her cloak from her dresser as she swept past, throwing it over her shoulders. It was winter in Skyrim, and the air was crisp and cold outside as she hurried to the Hall of Elements to the Arch-Mage’s chambers. She hoped he would be awake….

She breathed into her hands just before grasping the stone door handles, pulling them open and hurrying inside the hall. Iingae shut the door behind her with a quick telekinesis spell, already jogging up the stairs to the Arch-Mage’s chambers. _Please hear me, Arch-Mage,_ she begged silently, finally coming to a stop outside his door. She squeezed her eyes shut, sucking in a deep breath as another wave of fear rolled over the Bosmer. _It’s fine, it’s fine,_ she tried to soothe herself, breathing deeply. _There’s no reason to panic…._ Iingae opened her eyes and knocked on the door. She swallowed hard, taking a step back. Her heart thundered in her chest. She was about to knock again when the door opened, and a bleary-eyed, graying Dunmer looked back at her. “Arch-Mage,” Iingae greeted quietly.  
The Arch-Mage blinked at her. “Iingae. Come in,” he stood aside, opening the door wide for her. She gave a small smile, dipping her head as she hurried past. “Sit, please. I’ll make some tea.”  
“Thank you, Arch-Mage.”

There was silence while the Dunmer mage made a pot of chamomile tea, and Iingae sat nervously on the edge of a chair. “Is it the dream again?” the Arch-Mage asked, holding out a cup of tea.  
Iingae nodded. “But it feels like something is going to happen soon, something we can’t stop,” she gasped, panic taking hold of her heart as she remembered the dream. Her hands shook as she held the cup, taking an unsteady sip in the hopes of calming her nerves. The Arch-Mage leaned back in his chair, nodding thoughtfully. “I see. I had hoped these dreams would come to an end by themselves, but it seems we have no other choice left…” he trailed, sipping his tea.  
Iingae stared up at him hopefully. “There’s a way to stop the dreams?”  
“No, not _stop_ them necessarily.” He continued hastily when Iingae’s face fell. “But there is something we can do to find out the reason behind them, and work from there. After the Fourth Era drew to a close, only the Arch-Mages at this College have known about this, and it has been kept secret to prevent the young and foolish from tempting fate.” The Dunmer paused, gauging Iingae’s reaction carefully. She had calmed down somewhat, and was listening attentively to him. “Beneath the College lie a series of passages and tunnels, leading to where the Augur of Dunlain resides. He is wise, and almost all-knowing. I believe it is time you spoke with him about your dreams, and hear what he has to say about them. I suppose you will want to go as soon as possible?”  
“Yes – yes, I would, Arch-Mage! Do you really think he will be able to help?” she asked.  
“I do believe his insight may prove helpful, if not invaluable. Go, get dressed, and I will meet you outside the Hall of Elements in twenty minutes. Then we will go to the Augur.”

Iingae’s hopeful smile as she left, thanking the old Dunmer made him hope that the Augur of Dunlain would be able to help. Eight Divines, that girl had suffered enough this past year because of those dreams. One could only hope they weren’t as foreboding as they seemed.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Iingae stopped when the Arch-Mage sighed heavily. They stood a short distance from an old, heavy wooden door. “This is as far as I can go with you, Iingae. Beyond that door is the Augur of Dunlain. Speak truthfully, and listen carefully to what he has to say. I will be here when you come out,” he said, smiling gently at her. Iingae looked back, wide-eyed. He wasn’t going with her? Then again, the Arch-Mage shouldn’t even have some with her through these icy passages, helping her defeat Ice-Wraiths and other creatures that made the tunnels home. The Bosmer nodded slowly. “Thank you for coming with me, Arch-Mage,” she whispered, her lips twitching into a smile. She took a deep breath, and walked towards the door.

_There is no solace in knowing what is to come._

Iingae froze, her heart skipping beats as it hammered in her chest, her breath coming in short gasps. _Go forwards, go forwards_ , she willed herself, eventually managing to reach the door.

_Still you persist? Very well, then. You may enter._

The door swung open by itself, and Iingae heard the Arch-Mage murmur something behind her. She took a steadying breath, and stepped inside.

_Welcome to the Midden, Iingae._

Iingae stood in front of a glowing energy orb, bright blue in color. “Are you… are you the Augur of Dunlain?” she asked.  
_I am that which you have been seeking, yes. But you do not fully know why you have sought me out._  
“It was to understand my dreams,” Iingae said, looking up at the orb in confusion. A soft chuckle filled the air.  
_No, that is not why you came here. You seek what all others who wield magic seek: knowledge. I shall tell you what I told another many years ago – knowledge corrupts, destroys, consumes. You hope to find shelter in knowledge, but you shall not._  
“I don’t understand! What do my dreams mean?” she cried, her voice breaking.  
_They mean what has happened before will happen again, and soon. You seek journals, of which this College has two, and the knowledge inside them. You are being guided down a path only a few will travel, one which will shape and change the world yet again. It is a good path, but a difficult one, and the same one as the true last of your kind._  
“Which journals do I need to find in the College Library? And what do you mean by ‘true last of my kind’?”  
_You must find the journals of one who lived eight-hundred years ago, in what you call the Fourth Era, those of the last of your kind. You must follow what they tell you, and do not fail. For failure will mean the end. You will be joined by others, parts of a whole. Events now spiral towards an inevitable center, so you must act with haste! Go, take this knowledge. Use it well, Iingae._

The orb went silent, and Iingae was left stunned. Something like this had happened before? Why wasn’t it recorded in history? And who was the last of her kind? The Bosmeri people hadn’t died out! Did it perhaps have to do with a story the Thalmor had been keeping buried? Everyone who was a part of the College knew they were covering something up, especially after their near-defeat centuries ago, but no-one knew what it was…. _I have to find two journals, and I must follow them. I have no choice, and no matter how scared I get, I have to keep going._ Iingae looked up at the orb again. “Thank you,” she whispered, unsure if the Augur heard, and unsure if any of it really helped her, then turned and left, closing the door behind her.

The Arch-Mage looked at her expectantly as she came back, appreciating the way she seemed to be standing a little taller. “He told you something, then?”  
Iingae nodded. “I need to read the two journals the College possesses, written by someone who lived at the end of the Fourth Era, and then do what they mention inside.” She frowned at the Arch-Mage when he drew in a breath, looking apprehensive. “Is this not the wisest course to follow, Arch-Mage? I feel as if I should do it.”  
Then Dunmer motioned that they walk back to the College. “I know which journals the Augur spoke of, and they are kept in Saarthal, as they have been since they were given to the College in the Fourth Era. I have read them but once, and they do not seem to make much sense at all. Perhaps you will find something within those old pages that I cannot see. I will give you a marked map of Skyrim, and show you where Saarthal is. You have only recently come to the College to study here, so you will need the map. Take one of the College horses when you leave, and an apprentice as well. Not much research has been happening in that old city for a while, though a few mages go there on occasion to study in silence. But, wait until everyone has woken up, Iingae. Take a few moments to gather your wits, have breakfast, and then go to Saarthal. There is no need to rush just yet.”

Iingae nodded – she would keep this ‘last of her kind’ information to herself, take an apprentice to Saarthal, but send him or her home as soon as the place was clear. This was something she needed to do alone, and she had a feeling it would change her for the better.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Iingae had finally managed to get through all of Saarthal, the young Nord apprentice striding boldly ahead of her through the empty ruins, right up to the final chamber. He had stubbornly refused to leave her alone as they moved through the Nordic ruins, and she was beginning to wonder if she was grateful or frustrated that he was here to help look. Iingae felt ready to cry – nothing was here that looked even remotely like an old book, never mind an old journal. The young Nord male was digging through a pile of debris in a corner, and Iingae wandered around what looked like an old, shallow, circular pool (now empty) to look on the other side of the chamber. A fissure caught her eye, and she followed it into a natural cavern. A steady thrumming filled her ears, resounding in her body, her soul. _Follow it,_ something told her, and she came to a crumbling wall, inscribed with an ancient, crude alphabet. _It looks like claw marks…_ she thought absently, the thrumming growing louder and stronger, echoing her heartbeat and drowning out the world. One word in particular drew her attention, and she reached out to touch it.

_Iiz._

Iingae pulled her hand back, curling her fingers into a loose fist. She stared at the word. How did she know what it was, how to say it? What language was it? She’d never seen anything like it before! Had she said the word out loud? _Could_ she say the word out loud? She stepped closer, and her foot connected painfully with an ancient chest. Iingae’s eyes smarted, and she cast a healing spell on her foot, grateful for the easing pain. She crouched down beside the chest, pushing the lid up. It gave slowly on rusted hinges, and inside lay two journals. Her eyes widened: this was what she had come for. She reached for them, putting one in her lap as she flipped through the pages of the other. Drawings, designs, scribbled words and beautiful handwriting filled the pages with sepia ink that must have once been black. The name ‘Blackreach’ appeared on every few pages, too. The other book was similar to the first, including the mention of Blackreach, and a name was written on the inside of the front covers of both: Thonro.

 _It’s a Nord name,_ Iingae realised, snapping the covers shut and quickly put them into the satchel she carried with her and hurried back to the main chamber. It was time to go back to the College, read both of these journals, briefly research events and places of the time, and go wherever they took her. She’d find out where this ‘Blackreach’ was. Iingae knew she had to. She’d be terrified at times, and she would want to stop, but if she could stall the ill tidings her dreams brought, even for a short while, she would try.

 

* * * * * * *

 

_5E799, Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, Dawnstar Hold_

“It is _Tsabhi’s!_ ” a black Khajiit hissed furiously, snarling and hissing at a Dark Brother in the Sanctuary. The hairless-one was trying to steal her precious Moon Sugar, her only stash of Moon Sugar left!  
“Ahhhhhwwww…. C’mon, Tsabhi! Share a little with your _beloved_ brother, Jacques of Highrock!”  
Tsabhi hissed louder, lunging at the Breton and missed as he deflected her attack with an Illusion spell. He had actually been further away than she realised…. “Tsabhi will _also_ break the Tenets if you do not _give back this one’s Moon Sugar_!”

“Enough! What is going on here?” the voice of a young child stopped Tsabhi and Jacques immediately. They both straightened, and looked sheepishly at the girl, looking no older than ten. “What is that in the bag, Jacques?”  
Jacques cleared his throat. “Well, see, I took Tsabhi’s stash of Moon Sugar, and –”  
“So you _stole_ from your sister?” the girl asked coyly.  
Jacques’ eyes widened and he paled. Tsabhi smirked at the Breton. “No! Speaker Babette, I had only hoped to ask Tsabhi if she would share some of it with me! I swear, I never stole it!”  
“Are you sure…?” the girl smiled, her chocolate-brown eyes turning red, and her canines growing longer.  
Tsabhi hissed quietly. The un-child made her uncomfortable when she was like that. “Tsabhi isn’t out hunting. She won’t go for another week, at least. This one wants to relax and celebrate the last contract with some of her Moon Sugar! This is the last of it – Tsabhi must go to the Guild of Thieves for more, soon! Please, Speaker, let her have her Moon Sugar!” Tsabhi growled softly, opening her ice-blue eyes wide. Babette’s features returned to normal, and she nodded her head at Tsabhi. Jacques almost threw the Moon Sugar at the Khajiit, bolting for his dorm. “Thank you, Speaker,” Tsabhi purred, and the un-child smiled softly.  
“You deserve a break, Silencer. You’ve done well for me on that last contract. Do enjoy yourself…” she trailed, walking back to her chambers.

Tsabhi sighed in pleasure – nothing like a little Moon Sugar to relax after a good, delicious kill like the one she’d just had. Maim and gut and make bloody, the hairless-one couldn’t be recognised, for a bonus, and Tsabhi had clawed and cut and it had been such fun. Even licking the blood off her fur had been fun. But especially the part where she decorated the hairless-one’s room in his entrails, painted his walls in his blood. And left her five claw marks on the wall, signing her kill. Ah, the news had spread – the Panther had stuck again for the Dark Brotherhood! It had been so difficult not to purr and mewl in pleasure when Tsabhi read a copy of the Black Horse Courier about her kill….  
Tsabhi went to her personal chambers; an addition to the Sanctuary after the Listener had returned to power in the Fourth Era, and closed the door. Tsabhi almost didn’t make her way to her bed before she started eating the Moon Sugar. Sure, she was taking a little more than she usually did, but she was allowed to be extreme once in a while… she had done well, even her Speaker had said so…. The Khajiit fell down on the bed, her robes loose and comfortable. Her pouch of Moon Sugar was empty, and she was beginning to feel the high.

Dimly, she realised it might have been a mistake to take this much after being clean for so long… but she couldn’t bring herself to focus for too long. She rolled further onto the bed, mewling and purring deeply as she lost herself to the bright hallucinations.

Warm sands, bright sun, colourful fields of flowers, blinding white snow meadows…. Then a forest full of blood, death, blackness.

She saw a forest, and an old, Dark Brother pin-cushioned to a tree. A broken Black Door, a corridor falling in, stairs going down, down, down to a room covered in rubble and some holes in the roof above. There was water everywhere, and a wall with words…. Special words. But Tsabhi could not see them clearly, and oh, how she tried! But the words would not come. And then she was outside, in a burning village in the middle of screaming women and children, and dying and burning men, and there was this black _thing_ flying over and above, and it was terrible, and Silencer Tsabhi knew fear.

Tsabhi screamed.

 

* * * * * * *

 

The Silencer had left the hallucinations alone until they returned as dreams for a week, and only then did Tsabhi quiz her Speaker about this vision-hallucination, and Babette had confirmed what Tsabhi had suspected: what she had seen was what remained of the Falkreath Sanctuary, as it had been when it was destroyed in the Fourth Era. None of the previous Listeners had bothered to restore it, because everyone knew it was there. And the work to remove the rubble, build new walls inside…. It would empty the Brotherhood’s great coffers. It had simply been easier to build new Sanctuaries and re-open ones that had been closed than to restore a well-known Sanctuary. But the darkness that flew…. The Speaker could not say what it was. But her eyes… her eyes said she thought she knew.

Babette told her Silencer about the Words on the Wall, and that it had something to do with what had happened centuries ago, in the Fourth Era as well. It always amazed Tsabhi that one so young could be so old. Everyone knew Babette was a vampire, but it still amazed the Khajiit…. And all the new Family members.

“There is something strange about those words on that wall, Speaker. And this Khajiiti feels like one who is hunted. The feeling will not leave her, and it stays…. This one wants to go there, and see what is to be found there. Only then will Tsabhi find peace,” she growled, put out. Why does Father-Sithis play with his kitten so? It is not fair to Tsabhi!  
“Very well, go there. It was – _is_ – to the west of the city of Falkreath. Perhaps you will even find one of that old _Nord’s_ journals while you’re there. It was a bonus for a contract before the Sanctuary was destroyed…” Babette trailed, lost in some ancient memory. Tsabhi didn’t stop to ask twice – she packed her things and left Dawnstar Sanctuary by its secret entrance and exit. Falkreath would see her in a few weeks.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Tsabhi hated the cold, hated the winters of Skyrim! So much snow, so much wind and too many wolves looking for food. And then there were bears in Falkreath Hold. But this Khajiiti finally made it to the old Sanctuary, and now she was going inside. She would read the Words of the Wall, and see if this journal that was once a bonus is still in the old Sanctuary. She hissed as she clambered over the rocks and rubble, and finally squeezed through a small gap to get inside. _This would make a good hideout, if this one is ever here and is being hunted by the hairless-ones who keep the law,_ Tsabhi thought, blinking in the dark. Her vision suddenly switched to violet hues, and she could see clearly in the gloom. There was a pool of water to the right, and the wall was next to it. Tsabhi didn’t hear anything inside this old Sanctuary, and she padded right up to the Wall of Words, touching one which spoke to her, hummed in her blood and her being.

It was the word _Krii_.

“How does this Tsabhi know this mark is called ‘ _krii’_? Ack, it matters not to this Khajiiti. This one must see if she can find this journal.”

She searched the remains of this old home, this old haven, and finally found a husk of a burnt woman lying as if she was a Black Sacrament. “You must be Astrid the Betrayer, if this one remembers our Family’s history correctly,” Tsabhi purred, crouching next to the skull and leering over it. “This one would have killed you long before you could betray her, if the histories remember you well.”

Tsabhi stood, opening a scorched drawer. Inside, in a burnt metal case, was this journal from the Nord her Speaker must have mentioned when Tsabhi asked about her dreams. “Thonro, yes? A very strong Nord name. And this journal says to go to…” Tsabhi stopped thinking aloud, suddenly absorbed in the writings and the sketches. “Hn. This one has exploring to do. The Speaker must find another Silencer for now.” She closed the book, shoving it into her rucksack and left the old Sanctuary. Her curiosity was piqued, and she wanted to know what she could find at the end of this rainbow. “Perhaps it would end this one’s feeling of being prey…” Tsabhi wondered, clambering out of the Sanctuary and walking north to Whiterun. This Khajiiti would take the carriage to Dawnstar. She only makes a mistake once, unless she forgets she made it before.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Tsabhi read the entire journal three times on the trip to Dawnstar. “Gah, this Khajiiti doesn’t like these old Dwemer ruins. Her tongue can’t say their names, and now this book wants her to go inside one she cannot say, deep inside, to a place that is called Blackreach?” she muttered to herself as she sat inside the Dawnstar inn. “She supposes she can’t say no – she wants to know what is there, that is so important to find…. Babette will have to find another for as long as this one is gone.”

Tsabhi sighed, closing the book and stuffing it into her pack. Not even temporary leave was allowed in the Dark Brotherhood, and the only way out permanently was death – and then eternity was spent with the Dread Father in the Void. Tsabhi could only hope she would be able to explore this journal and find the others _and_ keep her place in the Family. She had worked hard to get to her position as Silencer, working directly under one of the four Speakers, who worked directly under the Listener and _his_ personal Silencer. Aside from the Keeper and _her_ Silencer, of course. But the Keeper looked after the Unholy Matron, and didn’t really _lead_ the Dark Brotherhood. And after the Fourth Era, it had become something of a tradition for the Keeper and the Listener to be married, if only in act if not by law. “Politics are too much for this Khajiiti this late at night,” Tsabhi grumbled, dropping a few coins onto the table and walking into the room she had bought for the night. She dropped her pack to the floor, and kicked it under her hired bed. Tsabhi fell down onto the hard bed, and pulled the furs over herself as she closed her eyes to sleep.

She’d go home in the morning, and talk to her Speaker about all of this. There had to be a way to do both – Tsabhi knew she wanted to find out about this ancient Nord, and why she knew the word _krii_ in a language she had never seen nor heard of before. And what it meant. She suspected she would like what it meant.

 

* * * * * * *

 

_5E799, somewhere south-west of Whiterun, Whiterun Hold_

A pack of three werewolves raced along the moonlit plains, locking onto their target – a mammoth calf that had made the mistake of straying from the herd and the protection offered by the giants who kept them. One had a deep red coat, and he worked at directing the calf away from the herd. Another had a light brown pelt, and she chased at the calf, snapping at it and tiring it out. The final wolf was graying around the muzzle and eyes, his once-dark and rich black coat thinning and paling to a washed-out black with many silver specks. He was here to look out for the younger wolves, and make sure they didn’t start unnecessary trouble. He loped easily behind them, watching the pair as they wore out the mammoth calf. Whiterun Hold had been overrun with mammoths, and as of two months ago, their numbers had been slowly declining thanks to the Companions. Mammoth meat became quite cheap in the Hold, ivory was used in almost every piece of jewellery, and most leathers and furs came from the hides of slain mammoths. Every so often, though, an unlucky traveller would come across a horribly mangled mammoth carcass, and some nights unearthly howls filled the night, followed shortly by the death screams of a mammoth.

No-one ever spoke about it, but everyone knew a pack of werewolves was responsible for the carnage, and for keeping the people restless at night.

The younger wolves quickly took down the mammoth calf, silencing its scream midway. They growled and yipped happily at each other, eager to feed on their kill. But they waited for their elder to take his fill. The older wolf trotted over, appraising the kill. Quick, neat. They were learning quickly. He growled softly, about to tear into the meat when he lost control of the wolf inside.

He phased back to an aging Orc, snarling at the pain of the transformation. He dropped to his knees, panting. It was the third time in two months this had happened, where the Beastblood dimmed and it was harder to call upon the wolf, harder to maintain the form. His pack whined, asking him what was wrong. He shook his head, baring his teeth in frustration as his pack phased back to their human forms, a red-haired Imperial and a pretty Redguard. “Uramulg!” the Redguard cried. “What happened?”  
Uramulg briefly considered telling these young pups about him losing control of the wolf, but thought better of it. He’d talk to the Harbinger once they returned. He brushed off the girl’s concern with a huff and a flashed smile, deciding on a standard reply. “I’ve been phasing to a wolf often this month – if I stayed in that form longer I wouldn’t have come back. Well, since you’re back in your human forms, we might as well head back to Jorrvaskr. There’s nothing we can do about the mammoth carcass now.” The Orc stood, turning away from the others and started running back to the Underforge. None of them would be able to phase again tonight, and while the night was still fairly young, he wanted to talk to the Harbinger. This had gone on for too long.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Uramulg was grateful when he finally made it back inside the Underforge, quickly pulling on a tunic and leggings before shoving his feet into boots and striding out without a backward glance at the two young Circle members. He could almost hear their concerned glances.

“One-Tusk! You’re back early! How was the –”

A cold glance silenced the newest member of the Companions, who looked away with a blush. The boy had yet to learn that members of the Circle were not to be trifled with, for reasons more subtle than respect. Uramulg jogged down the stairs to the dorms, and strode down the passage to the Harbinger’s door. _It’s open, good_ , he thought, pausing briefly to knock on the frame. A dark-haired Nord woman looked up from the book she was reading, over-turning her head to the left so her right eye could see who was there, her left eye glassy and blind. She smiled, the burn and claw scars on the left side of her face and neck pulling tightly. “Uramulg Shagrak. Come in,” she greeted, gesturing at a chair at the table. “What brings you tonight?”  
“Harbinger,” the Orc greeted reverently, closing the door behind him and sitting tensely in the chair. She merely looked interested, waiting for her Shield-Brother to speak. “Something stirs within that dims or exaggerates the Wolf within. I do not know what has caused this, but it has been happening for the past two months with increasing frequency.”  
“I see…. And you have the most control of the Beast of all the Circle…. Perhaps, Uramulg, now is a time to go to the Tomb of Ysgramor, and meditate there to speak with the Companions who have come before. They might be able to help you find yourself again. I believe that is why the Wolf dims, or hunts more strongly than before.”

Uramulg nodded thoughtfully. “I will leave tonight. I cannot wait for dawn before travelling.” He stood, dipping his head at the Harbinger.  
“Go wherever you must, Uramulg One-Tusk. We will welcome you back with open arms when you return. Perhaps, also, take this journal with you,” she said, rising with a slight wince and walking to the bookshelf on the other side of the room. She pulled an old journal from the shelf, worn from years of travel and smooth from the many fingers which touched its leather covers. “It belonged to a man named Thonro. I am unsure as to who exactly he was, and of his exact connections to the Companions, but it was addressed to Aela the Huntress, the Harbinger after Kodlak Whitemane. There are some interesting writings within, and perhaps they may help you to find your new purpose, whatever that may be.”  
Uramulg took the book, awed by the treasure he was being given. “Only the Harbingers have been allowed to handle and read the book –”  
“And were meant to pass on the knowledge inside when the time was right. Now is that time. Go to the Tomb of Ysgramor, read the journal, and do what you feel you must. A page has been torn out, and there is a portion of a map in the middle. From what I have researched, the map is of a place deep within the bowels of Skyrim,” the woman smiled. “I almost envy the adventure you will have! Good luck, Shield-Brother, may Hircine and the Divines watch over you.”

Uramulg stared at the cover of the old journal, speechless. It was a treasure guarded closely by the Harbingers, and only the Circle really knew of the journal’s existence. “I… Harbinger, thank you,” Uramulg dipped his head, grateful and humbled by the extension of trust. The journal was a great treasure to the Companions, and he had every intention to treat it as such.  
“Good luck, Uramulg. I wish you all the best.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

Uramulg sent a letter down to Jorvaskr on his return from Ysgramor’s Tomb, explaining he was leaving for Blackreach and would not return to Whiterun for at least a few years. Kodlak and Aela’s ghosts had appeared before him in the tomb, and Aela had stressed the importance of following the directions Thonro had left behind before she contorted into a wolf, and vanished. Kodlak had merely agreed with her, and while he offered no further insights, he said that Thonro would be watching over him from Sovngarde.

It was here, when the old Orc learnt the word ‘ _Raan_ ’, and he knew that he could not let the matter lie. He would seek out the old Nord’s secrets, and follow this path to the end. His sanity depended upon it.


	3. Not As It Seems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two of my favorite characters appear in this chapter:3

**Chapter Two: Not As It Seems**

 

_5E799, Sizaanvukrin Manor, Markarth_

Rumarene perused the ancient, Dwemer-style bookshelves hiding the entrance to the Alchemy Lab. The young high elf tucked his almost-white, shoulder-length hair behind an ear. He was bored, and looking for something interesting to read. His father had maintained a rather impressive collection of books, ranging from some forgotten person’s journal to scholarly books to fiction to speculation. It was all within these shelves, and more scholarly pursuits were carefully documented and housed within the Alchemy and Enchanting Labs; the more intriguing, personal collections his father kept within his study.

Rumarene had been raised to be an avid reader, and while he had at least flipped through the pages of all the books here, he hadn’t actually _read_ them all. Old books, new books…. Was there nothing here to catch his eye on a day he was actually _not_ working as a Thalmor Justiciar?

Rumarene sighed, about to give up when a worn, old black leather cover caught his eye. He crouched down, pulling the soft leather out gently.

The pages were just as soft, a quality parchment fading from sharp crispness to a soft fabric. The first page’s words had faded to nothing in some places, but the once-black sepia ink immediately had his attention. “I do believe this is _exactly_ what I am looking for,” he stood, carefully handling the book as he stalked back to his bedroom. Yes, this would be a very interesting read….

 

* * * * * * *

 

Rumarene carefully shut the book a few days later, his mind barely able to process what he had just finished reading. It had to be a lie…. It had to be a work of fiction! The writings of a madman!

But yet…. He found himself believing many parts of the whole, questioning everything he had ever thought and believed to be true. _Perhaps it is merely a well-written allegory to the Fourth Era_ , he mused doubtfully. There was just too much detail, too many personal points that made the journal too authentic to be fiction. Rumarene’s father would be returning from his trip to Cyrodiil tonight, so he would be able to start probing his father about the book, and its owner.

“Rumarene?”

The mer flinched, clutching the book tighter. It surely wasn’t _so_ late, yet?

“Father,” Rumarene greeted, placing the book on his bedside table and striding out of his room. They embraced briefly, and Rumarene caught the ghost of a smile on his father’s lips. “Your travels went well?”  
“They did, thank you. Everything was well here?”  
“Yes, Father,” Rumarene replied evenly, quickly helping his father unpack and replace the items he had taken with. It was only the two of them, after his mother had died several decades ago. Occasionally, the few Thalmor servants that dwelled in the Keep would come down to the manor and tidy the place, or cook if Rumarene had requested it. That was the case with this evening, the traditional Alinorean dishes already laid out on the table, runes keeping the dishes warm. It had been a long time since Rumarene had enjoyed a traditional meal, and especially one with his father. The added benefit would be that he could broach the subject about the journal, if he managed to passively steer the conversation in that direction.

After all, his father was still the head of the house, and thus considered the host. Rumarene would have to be careful in manipulating the conversation.

Conversation flowed slowly, lingering on his father’s diplomatic trip to the Imperial City; the name ‘Ondolemar’ may not have been as well-known in the Cyrodiilic province, but it was still respected one, considering how quickly Rumarene’s father had restored order to the city of Markarth.  
The conversation finally progressed on to the Arcane University, before finally settling on history, and speculating an alternate history. This was Rumarene’s chance.

“Speaking of speculative history…” he ventured, poking at his food with a fork as he gathered up his resolve. “I’ve discovered a rather intriguing piece written as a journal about the Fourth Era –”  
“You shame yourself by leading the conversation, Rumarene,” Ondolemar cut across his son, scowling at his meal.

Rumarene hung his head, failing to hide his burning cheeks. “Yes, Father.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

Several days later, a soft tap on his door accompanied his father’s soft question, “Rumarene?” as he pushed the door open made the young Altmer’s head snap up from the journal, hurriedly flipping it closed and trying to push it out of eyesight discretely.  
“Father?” he twisted around on his bed, his crossed legs not quite willing to follow his torso.

Ondolemar pulled a chair closer, not meeting his son’s eyes just yet. “He used to live in this very house, you know. Vlindrel Hall, it was called back then,” he snorted softly, a corner of his mouth lifting wryly as he leaned his elbows on his thighs. Rumarene frowned, wondering what his father was going on about now. “I remember the day I received news of his death. I thought they were lies, and though I sent items for his funeral, every day for a month I expected that man to waltz into the Keep, pulling out his ridiculous Amulet of Talos from under his shirt just to rile me. But he never did. I’ll never understand why the fool had insisted this place be given to me when he died, but he had. I don’t suppose anyone really knew what was going on inside his head, not even that woman of his. What was her name…?” Ondolemar paused, looking at the ceiling. “Ah, yes: _Aela_. He never could stop talking about her.”  
Rumarene stared at his father, slightly incredulous. That was a mortal name he mentioned – Nord, in fact. “Father, I don’t understand, who is this man you speak of?”

The old Justiciar finally met his son’s eyes. “Thonro, the Nord who wrote the journal you so enjoy studying.”

Rumarene blinked fast several times, wondering if he had heard right.

“Nord? Thonro? I…” he shook his head, and was perplexed when his father offered him a rare, genuine smile.  
“Thonro lived nigh on eight-hundred years ago, just after we had ended the Great War and the Aldmeri Dominion began in earnest.” Ondolemar reached for the journal, thumbing the old leather as he remembered. “Skyrim was in turmoil – some mortals insisted on rebelling against our laws concerning Talos, and at that time a reasonably formidable force was built up, led by Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm.”  
“Formidable? We’ve destroyed them! They could never have stood a chance!” Rumarene exclaimed, amazed the old Justiciar could even _think_ such a travesty. He immediately bowed his head at the scowl that formed on his father’s face.

“They almost took control of Skyrim in those days. It may be downplayed now, Rumarene, but they were a very real threat then. But, I digress,” he leaned back in the chair, and Rumarene suddenly felt like he was about to tumble into secret, forbidden knowledge. He looked at Ondolemar expectantly. “In the beginning, the Thalmor – like the rest of Skyrim – believed the rumours were simply tall tales, nothing more. Such creatures hadn’t been seen in eras, and they were legend, myth. Dragons simply weren’t real.”  
“But they _were_ …?”

Ondolemar nodded slowly, the journal in his lap as a hand reached absently to stroke his neat goatee, turning silver with age. “They were. One attacked the city, apparently drawn to the one man who could kill them. That man’s name was Thonro.”  
“But there _was_ no such man; none of our records mention him!” Rumarene protested.  
His father shot him a dark glance. “Is that how I raised you, boy?” he sighed when Rumarene blanched, raising a hand to offer a truce and shaking his head. “Remember, there is more to the world than what is written down.”  
“Yes, Father,” Rumarene murmured.  
“Centuries ago, I would have been as disbelieving as you, my son. But now…. I’ve seen too many things in that time to just accept as I once did. And it is as you say – there are no records of Thonro. We made sure no-one would ever remember that a single _Nord_ saved Nirn from the World-Eater. Thonro is the reason the world still sees the dawn, the moons still shine at night. The Thalmor never had anything to do with defeating Alduin, but we needed the masses to believe _we_ were the reason they were safe – it was all about control. It still is.”  
Rumarene frowned, thinking over what he had just heard. _Alduin was the dragon’s name?_ “Alduin was the dragon? Just _one_ , petty dragon?” Rumarene scoffed, glancing at his father, still not believing this new truth. “Anyone could have defeated him,” he huffed.

Ondolemar laughed this time, and Rumarene felt his cheeks grow warm with his father’s mirth. “He wasn’t the only one, and he certainly wasn’t ‘petty’; though I said the same, then. Dragons poured into Skyrim by the dozens, and Alduin… Alduin was the World-Eater, the one destined to bring the end of the world, as foretold and such and so. The brother of Akatosh, apparently. Thonro stopped the end of the world, somehow. I never bothered to understand the nuances of what he did, or even what the common people called ‘Shouting’ and what _he_ called the ‘Thu’um’. I regret that, now. What I do know about it, is he could say words in a language not meant for Man, Mer or Beast and could match and beat any dragon that dared cross him.”

The old Justiciar went silent, remembering something from those many years ago, a mild look of incredulous respect on his usually mask-like face. Rumarene shifted to a more comfortable position on his bed, wondering what exactly he heard in his father’s voice when he spoke of this mortal man, Thonro. Everything he was hearing now challenged everything he thought he knew, and it went against almost everything he had grown up to believe in. “Did… did you ever see him fight a dragon?” he asked hesitantly.

The older Altmer’s eyebrows quirked, and his eyes shone. “Once, yes. It’s another thing I will never forget. I was called out when the beast attacked Markarth, and I stood outside Understone Keep watching it soar closer. It was white, almost blue in some places; its head was probably the length of a tall Altmer, and its entire body must have stretched to well over twelve. It had no forelegs, but massive hind legs and the largest wings. I remember thinking it must be impossible to get such a great creature off the ground and into the air. And it roared…” Ondolemar shook his head. “There are no words to describe it. And there he was, that Nord man, somewhere further down, in his polished ebony armour and ebony greatsword. I don’t know what I head, but I felt a whisper as he stared up at the dragon, and immediately it knew where to look for him. It seemed to utter three words, and a blizzard from its mouth coated half of the city in frost. Then it began.

“Guards shot at it, and it dragged them off the ramparts with its claws, lashing at them with its tail and bit them in half; landing on roofs and tall buildings and gouged holes like you’ve never seen before into the stone as though it was clay. And this one, mortal man was fearless: not once did he back down, or hide to catch his breath. He was shouting furiously at the dragon in its own tongue, attacking it with his greatsword when the beast dared come close enough, and finally slew it. What happened after that…” he shook his head again, looking at the journal. “The dragon started burning in the middle of the city – spontaneously – leaving nothing but the bones and a few hardier scales. I didn’t believe any of the stories until then, and when he turned to look up at the Keep, I could swear he looked me in the eye. I was still turning to one of my foot soldiers to arrest him, when he uttered some word; I could feel the power that came with it, and the strangest sense of peace possessed me.

“Thonro left after that, doing what he could to avoid the crowd gathering to see the hero who saved the day. He came and went, and sometimes stopped by the Keep. I was intrigued by this mortal, and even though I hated him, I found myself looking forwards to the times he would come to Markarth. He was… surprisingly _intelligent_ … and could see one thing from many perspectives – and he was persuasive, when he tried,” the old Justiciar laughed. “I never viewed our relationship as friendship at the time, and I am not sure how he viewed it, but I do believe we came to hold a certain respect for one another. Certainly not something any mortal has – or ever will – do again.”

Rumarene was stunned into silence. But when his gaze fell on the journal in his father’s lap, a question occurred to him. He jerked his chin at the old book. “How did you come by his journal?”  
Ondolemar lifted the book, turning it over and leafing through it absently. “Several weeks before he died, he sought me out, the look of a desperate, dying wild animal in his eyes. Keep it safe, he said. Alduin cannot truly be killed and a time will come when others must do it again, he said. I had laughed at him, but his insistence and conviction silenced me quickly. He had scattered all of his writings across Skyrim, apparently, only trusting a few to each of the guilds. I accepted it, though I’m still not sure why. I suppose he knew then already that he wasn’t going to survive defeating Alduin, and he was making sure that future generations at least stood some kind of chance.” Ondolemar clenched his jaw, holding out the journal to his son. “Go, if you wish; follow this journal to the other fourteen and find a way to stop the World-Eater from returning.” He stood hastily, returning the chair to where it had been in Rumarene’s bedchambers. The young Altmer stared after his father, thinking he heard the older mer mutter under his breath, “Stop Alduin from coming back. After all, there aren’t any Dragonborns left to kill him,” as he left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Rumarene stared at the journal in his hands. _Looking certainly can’t do any harm, and my father has never had reason to lie before…._

 

* * * * * * *

 

_5E799, Bleak Falls Barrow, East of Riverwood_

“Nocturnal knows I'm getting _much_ too old for this,” Niruin the Bosmer thief grumbled for the umpteenth time since he and the Redguard, Jartodea, had set out from Riften almost three weeks ago. Jartodea had only smiled to himself every time, shaking his head slightly, and helped the old Bosmer along. He _had_ been the one to insist in the journey, and Jartodea had tagged along, knowing he'd be needed eventually. And though Niruin never said anything, Jartodea knew the elf appreciated it. They were inside Bleak Falls Barrow, just up the mountain from the village of Riverwood, searching the place for plunder and something else Niruin never spoke about, but Jartodea could sense it.

They had just taken out three smallish Frostbite Spiders, and the Redguard always took the lead in fights with his glass dagger – he knew Niruin wasn't the kind that dealt with enemies, and couldn't even if he wanted to. He was – as he complained – old, about late middle-aged where Bosmers are concerned, and he relied solely on his bow and his ability to sneak past enemies to stay alive. The Redguard took the lead again, heading further down the passage, on and on through chambers and the occasional Draugr which lingered here and there.

Finally they came to a long tunnel, the walls intricately carved into murals showing ancient scenes. Niruin wandered over to one, his fingers tracing the edges reverently. “It's just as he described them…” he breathed, forgetting about his companion briefly.

Jartodea frowned slightly at his back. “Just like who described?” he asked quietly, his heavily-accented voice deep and rich. No-one had ever heard him speak much louder than just about a whisper – there was never a need to, with a voice as captivating as his. Niruin raised his brows and glanced at the young thief behind him.  
“Someone I knew eight-hundred years ago.” He turned back to the wall at the very end, pulling out something of solid gold from a pouch and walking towards the end. Jartodea just followed. Whatever was behind what he could now see was a puzzle wall would probably reveal all.

With some difficulty and mild cursing on Niruin's part, they shifted the stone rings to match the pattern on the back of the golden claw, and Jartodea finally opened it. The door grated down into the floor, and they headed up a short flight of stairs to the final room in the barrow. There was a reasonable amount of plunder – gems, gold, silver – but that suddenly wasn't so interesting to the Redguard thief.

At the far end of the chamber was a semi-circular wall, rising high up and adorned with strange markings and carvings at the base. He could feel his blood pulse in his ears, and Niruin's excited mutterings and scratching through piles – tossing something that landed with a crash – faded into another world. As Jartodea got closer, he made the markings out to be words; words he couldn't understand, and surely hadn't seen anywhere else before, either. One in particular stood out to him, almost whispering. He reached out to trace it with his fingertips, barely noticing when he uttered it.

“Fus.”

Jartodea jerked his fingers back, stepping away from the wall in shock. _How… what…?_ He frowned deeply at the wall, backing away faster and faster until his foot struck something that ricocheted off the stones and down the steps to the floor, landing with a soft ‘thump’. Jartodea spun round, quickly seeing it was a book – a journal, in fact. He strode over, picked it up and leafed through it, astounded by some of the snippets he read.

“What's that?” Niruin asked, suddenly at the Redguards' shoulder.  
He shrugged. “Some kind of journal. Here,” he passed it to the Bosmer.  
“By the Nine!” he exclaimed softly, paging through swiftly at times and more slowly at others. “I don't believe it – the old fool really _did_ leave one in here! I never thought I'd ever see two of his blasted journals….”  
Jartodea frowned. “Who is this man you speak of? Did you know him?”

Niruin finally looked up, his eyes shining as he nodded. “Yes, yes I did! His name was Thonro – a Nord – and he saved Nirn from the World-Eater eight-hundred years ago…. He gave me one of his journals right before he died, saying I must keep it safe, pass on the knowledge when the time was right…. I guess that's now.” The Bosmer grinned brightly, and despite himself Jartodea's lips twitched upwards in return.  
“So, who was he? And this 'world-eater'? And the other journal?”  
“The other one is in the Vault – you'll need to speak with our guildmaster about getting in. As for the World-Eater, he–”

A sickening thud and squelch cut Niruin's words short, an ancient Nordic arrow protruding from his chest. He looked at the Redguard fearfully, shoving the journal at him. “Take it; protect it. Find what it tells you to. Go, Jartodea. Run!” he hissed, crumpling to the floor to reveal a Draugr they missed.

Blood pooled from the Bosmer's wound, and trickled from his mouth. “Forgive me, friend,” Jartodea said quickly, wishing he could take Niruin's body back to the guild to be honoured properly. But he fled up stairs leading further into the barrow, snatching up a lever as more Draugr screeched behind, hot in pursuit. A stone wall dropped, leading outside.

Jartodea ran until he couldn't run, clutching the journal all the way back to Riften.

 

* * * * * * *

 

He hid the journal before entering the Cistern, keeping his bags close as he shoved through the people to explain to the guildmaster what had happened. She was disheartened to hear of Niruin's death, and the guild held their own memorials and services late into the night.

When Jartodea finally managed to pull her aside and ask for the keys to the Vault, she simply nodded and handed them to him. It was easy to find the journal, since it was the only quality, leather-bound book inside. He tucked it into his satchel with the other one, locked the Vault behind him, and left the key on his guildmaster's desk under the statue of the Grey Fox, then retreated to the shrine of Talos outside to read the journals in peace.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Three hours later he stretched, his neck stiff from sitting so still, his eyes sore from the bad light. _I need to go to Mzinchaleft, and find this ‘Blackreach’ Thonro speaks of. And find out who this Alduin World-Eater is…. Forgive me, Nocturnal, for stealing from my brothers and sisters._

 

* * * * * * *

 

_5E799, Benevolence of Mara (Temple of Mara), Riften_

Surani bowed her head in prayer at the foot of the altar and effigy of Mara, her long lashes brushing her cheeks. She was the only Breton initiate this year, to the patron goddess of understanding, the bountiful earth, and mortal compassion. She had been so excited to come here! To study under the greatest Benevolence in Skyrim! A small smile graced her full lips as she clasped her hands tighter together, almost losing them in her ample bosom. Surani wanted nothing more than to help lovers love more, to teach those who hate to feel love, to turn those who fight one another into brothers and sisters with unconditional, perfect love for each other…. Really: all some people truly needed was a good, heart-warming hug.

Or fifty.

But they still needed it, all the same. And she wanted to help these people find that, and found herself following Mara’s call from the Forsworn hills of the Reach to the City of Thieves. If Surani had any say, shed turn Riften into the City of Heart-Thieves.

“Damn straight: everyone here will love each other by the time I head over to Aetherius if I can help it,” she murmured unconsciously, her head softly nodding along to the hymns she had learnt earlier that day.

_You are a true child of Mine, Surani._

“Your praise is high, Mother Mara,” Surani mumbles.

_It is due praise, for you are the one I choose to be My hero on this quest._

“I am honoured; I will do whatever I can, Mother Mara.” The Breton girl’s head bobbed happily along. The motherly warmth of Mara’s voice never failed to give her hope and courage, and fill her with the love needed for those who were in desperate need of it.

_Times of danger and sorrow are once more thrust upon the mortal world, and We Aedra can no longer provide a sole hero. You are One of Many, and you must be prepared. To the South, near the border of this land Skyrim, stands a Word Wall known as Lost Tongue Overlook. In the ruins still standing, you will find a chest, and within, the journal of a Hero forgotten by many; the Last Dragonborn, Thonro._

A warm touch lifted Surani's chin, and her dark green eyes opened in surprise. The radiant, motherly warmth of the image of Mara smiled down gently at Surani. “Do not fail, My child, and know that We All watch over you.”

Surani gasped in awed delight, about to answer when the soft, golden glow of the goddess vanished. The Breton's shoulders slumped in slight disappointment. “I will not fail You, Mother Mara.”

She had a duty to fulfil, and people to meet!

 

* * * * * * *

 

“…And so, I feel I must – no, I _know_ I must – go on this journey, as Mara has asked of me,” Surani stood her full five-foot height tall and proud, a fierce look in her eyes accentuated by the tattoos on her face from her days as a Forsworn Forager. She _was_ going to have her way! She smiled suddenly at the elder Priest of Mara in front of her. “I believe this is why I was called to Her. Please, let me do Her work.”

The old Dunmer seated across from her broke into a sudden chuckle. “Of course, Surani. You have the blessings of Mara, and of the members of this Benevolence on your journey.”  
Surani beamed bright as dawn. “Thank you, High Priest Erandur! Thank you!” she bowed, and hurried out to pack. She would set out first thing in the morning.

 

* * * * * * *

 

It was nearly dusk by the time Surani made it to the summit of Lost Tongue Overlook. She sighed loudly and happily, leaning on her Staff of Familiar as she stretched her man. “That hike and these stairs sure know how to give a girl a _proper_ workout!” she turned back to shake her staff at the stairs. “You be more reasonable to me on the way down, you hear?! Now, where is this chest I need to find, so I can find the journal…?” she trailed, skipping along the grass to another set of stairs. “Well, more stairs! No rest for the pilgrim, eh? Very well, then!” she bounded up the stairs, her eyes taking in the curiosity of the Wall before her. Scratch or claw marks were carefully etched into the lower section of the Wall – and the only reason she called it a ‘Wall’ instead of a ‘wall’ was because that was how Mother Mara had said it – and Surani was fairly sure they were some ancient script of sorts. After all, Mother Mara had said it was a _Word_ Wall.

What the Words were, was anyone’s guess.

“Right-o! Well, if these are words, then why does no-one else seem to know about them…? Well, here’s the chest. Better check inside, but…” her musings were halted when she stared at a particular word.

_Faas_. It reminded her a little of the word ‘fear’ for some reason. “Scary…. Back to collecting the journal!” she straightened and cracked open the chest, taking out a smooth, black leather journal. It was almost unaffected by time. “Hmm… good reading material, this is. After I set up camp, that is.”

She tapped her staff on the ground twice, summoning two wolves to look after her. “I should invest in a _real_ dog…” she murmured, still paging through the journal, picking out interesting snippets. “Ooh, I get to go on an ADVENTURE!” she squealed, doing a little jig. “And it looks like I’m headed for the deep, dark _depths_ of Blackreach!”

Surani looked up at the moons. “Well, this should be quite the adventure!”


	4. Adventurers, Depart!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some implied and referenced homophobia in this chapter, for any who are uncomfortable with that. Also, Rumarene is a racist asshole

**Chapter Three: Adventurers, Depart!**

 

_5E799, Castle Dour, Solitude_

“Legate Malpen Rosciu?”

Malpen looked up from his latest report towards the messenger at his door. “Yes, enter and speak,” he waved the messenger in.

Malpen straightened in his chair, hoping this had nothing to do with his recent ‘affair’ with a Praefect. However, things had ended… _badly_ … and his lover’s reaction had been enough to set off a chain of investigations and possibly end in dishonourable discharge from the Legion. Romantic relationships were strictly regulated by the Empire, following the Thalmor’s inescapable influence, and the elves weren’t fond of ‘his kind’.

“General Leonde Dergius wishes to speak with you,” the young man looked nervous – probably a fresh Auxiliary setting about his duties.  
“Very well. Immediately?”  
“Yes, Sir.”

Malpen carefully hid a sigh, smoothing his balbo beard. “Lead the way.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

“Legate Malpen Rosciu, please, take a seat,” General Dergius looked up from his desk and motioned at a chair, quickly signing off a few documents.

Malpen nodded, easing himself into the ornate wooden chair, and waited. He caught a glance of his reflection in a mirror, his dark hair tied out of his face and his light blue eyes betraying some of his discomfort. He looked away, listening to the scratch of a quill on parchment, and a sudden flourish.

“Legate Rosciu, your negotiations with the rebels this past month has made leaps in restoring order to Skyrim. Your skills as a negotiator are truly exceptional,” the General nodded, a dark look in his eyes.  
“Thank you, Sir. I do what I can for the peace and stability of the Empire.”  
“Indeed, and your skills as a warrior are also above par. I believe you took Driftshade Refuge after the rebels rebuilt it with a handful of men.”  
“It was a carefully planned assault, Sir. My men are as responsible for the fort’s capture as I,” Malpen nodded, wondering what the flattery was about.  
“I see… well, I have conferred with several of my peers, and the Penitus Oculatus –” Malpen’s eyes widened. _The Emperor’s bodyguards were involved?_ “– and we have decided to follow a new lead that may help us reclaim the Empire from the Dominion. You are the one we have determined to be the best fit for this mission.”

Malpen leaned back in the chair. The way he was told about this mission made it sound like he was setting out on something suicidal. General Dergius’ eyes told him he wasn’t expected to return, and his loss wouldn’t be mourned too greatly. “I see…. I am honoured, General Dergius. What does this mission entail?”  
“Good. As you know, we’ve made some restorations and expansions to Castle Dour recently. In the process of restoring walls in the dungeon, we made a discovery. We have acquired the journal of a Nord man from several hundred years ago, authenticated by our historians. It speaks of several treasures and powerful weapons hidden in the bowels of Skyrim. What exactly these weapons and treasures are, we do not know. It isn’t even certain that they exist.

“That is where you come in, Legate Rosciu. Your mission is to determine the truth of these accounts, and return them to Castle Dour if they prove true,” the General finished, laying a journal in the center of the table.

“May I?” Malpen gestured at the journal.  
“Go ahead,” General Dergius nodded stiffly.

Malpen leafed through the journal picking out snippets of a Nord man’s life at the very beginning of the Aldmeri Dominion. There was frequent reference to a woman called ‘Aela’. “Do you have an idea as to the possible location of these treasures and weapons, Sir?”  
“We do. They reside in a subterranean complex known as ‘Blackreach’. According to that journal, it can be accessed via Alftand, a dwemer ruin to the south-west of Winterhold, east of Snowpoint Beacon, one of our watchtowers. You will take the journal with you. Do you accept this mission?”

That wasn’t a question to turn down. Malpen looked up and closed the book. He wasn’t expected to return. He was a prized negotiator between the Empire and the last stragglers of the Stormcloak rebellion.

Malpen nodded once. “I accept the mission, Sir. I will take two of my men and leave in the morning –”  
“You leave alone. And you leave today.”

Malpen froze from standing up. He felt some colour drain from his face. He blinked.

The young Praefect he’d taken as his lover had come to General Dergius and done what Malpen had feared: the young man had exposed Malpen as a homosexual. Even if he returned from this mission, he would be discharged from the Legion.

Malpen stood straight, then saluted. “Yes, Sir.”  
“Dismissed,” General Leonde Dergius waved him away, his eyes already glued to the next sheaf of documents.

Legate Malpen Rosciu clenched his jaw on the way out. He _would_ come back alive. He _would_ find whatever was hidden in Blackreach and return triumphant.

His resolve was set.

 

* * * * * * *

 

_5E799, Morvunskar, Eastmarch Hold_

Svogre Bone-Breaker couldn’t keep the grin off his face when his commanding officer told him he was the one chosen for such an honour. He packed provisions and basic needs for his trip to Blackreach – he had no doubt that there would be several edible fungi and animals on the way down through Raldbthar and eventually into Blackreach.

“Maybe, with this chance, we might be able to truly liberate Skyrim once and for all! And return Talos to his rightful place among the Divines!” he laughed to himself.  
“If you keep talking to yourself, you might not find Thonro’s treasures, Svogre,” a woman’s voice teased.

He turned to see the wild-haired Kirstte leaning against the door frame. “Kirstte!” he smiled, taking her in his arms.  
“So you’re setting out today, then?”  
“Yes,” Svogre drew back, brushing her blonde hair back from her face. “Raldbthar isn’t far from here, I should make the first chamber by nightfall. Then I can continue through the ruins to Blackreach, and recover Thonro’s treasures. We _will_ liberate Skyrim from the elves! We _will_ rule our own people, in our own land, with our _own gods_ again!”  
Kirstte smirked, shaking her head. “I suspect my ancestor Ulfric would have liked you.”  
“I hope so,” Svogre backed her up against a table. “But more than that, I hope you do….”  
Kirstte giggled, gently bringing his face away from where he teased her neck. “You’re too charming for your own good, Bone-Breaker. If you want to make Raldbthar by nightfall you’d better get packing and leave Morvunskar.”

Svogre snorted, grasping her head and kissing her before turning away. He loved hearing her pant because of him.

Kirstte was a descendant of Ulfric Stormcloak, and the de facto leader of the Stormcloaks in Morvunskar. Her father headed their main force at the fort of Pale Pass, once again lost in time to those who dismissed it. Morvunskar was a decoy fort, and one easily held by a few men and women. The Stormcloaks may have been ousted from Windhelm, but they had settled nearby with impunity. Morvunskar was too close to Windhelm for the Empire to risk a siege, too high in the mountains and too well defended to warrant much more than extreme disdain from the Empire and even the Thalmor.

Svogre counted himself lucky to rip several agents of the Dominion from their horses the last time they tried to pass by the fort.

It was the instance that sealed his name as Bone-Breaker.

Kirstte watched as he finished stuffing a sleeping roll into his pack, and tied off the top.

“Come back alive, Svogre. I know you're a stubborn man, even for a Nord, but you know the Falmer in the depths. We can always send more with you a second time than you die lost in Blackreach,” Kirstte stood, wrapping her arms around his neck. Svogre held her close, burying his face in her hair.

“I will come back, Kirstte. By Shor and Talos, I will.”  
“What about Ysmir?” she joked.  
Svogre mock-sighed when he looked into her eyes. “By Ysmir’s beard, I will come back.”  
“You better, Bone-Breaker. Go, you’ve still got a mountain to climb,” Kirstte turned away.

Svogre smiled.

 

* * * * * * *

 

The road to Raldbthar was quiet, steep and cold. Svogre was glad he had worn his heavy cloak. Raldbthar loomed high above, the entrance still demanding he climb several staircases before he could enter the ruin.

Svogre stopped, sniffing the air, wary. He shifted his grip on his Skyforge steel battleaxe.

Someone was already at the ruin, and had a fire burning.

The Nord crept up the stairs, keeping his eyes and ears trained on the area above him despite the growing wind. He reached the top, the ruin’s entrance within reach. A lone figure sat beside a small fire, a pack propped up against a tree. If there were weapons, Svogre couldn’t see them from this angle.

He crept closer, his feet softly crunching through the snow. His fingers flexed one last time on his battleaxe’s grip.

The figure looked up, head turning to the side.

Svogre stared, blinking and squinting. _Could it be…?_

The man seemed to test the air, before turning around from where he crouched on the ground.

Svogre faltered, staring at the man.

“ _Uramulg_?” he called, barely believing his eyes.  
“Svogre?” a deep voice called back, a slight lisp colouring the questioning tone.

“I don’t believe it!” Svogre straightened, spreading his arms wide with a laugh. “This is the last place I expected to find you again!”  
Uramulg Shagrak stood, his white hair half-tied into a topknot fighting to be free in the mountain wind. “And I you! It’s been too long, friend! Come, warm yourself by my humble fire,” Uramulg stepped forwards and to the side.

Svogre clapped the Orc in a quick embrace, the heavier Orcish armour pushing through Svogre’s lighter leather. “It’s a welcome fire, Uramulg!” Svogre crouched down beside it, warming his fingers through his fur gauntlets. He eyed the Companion’s battleaxe and warhammer with envy.

“What brings you to Raldbthar?” Svogre asked, unshouldering his pack and placing his axe on the ground.  
“A quest, of sorts. I’ve taken some time away from the Companions to rediscover myself,” Uramulg nodded, the light glancing off his broken tusk and white, facial, clan tattoos. “And you?”  
“Is that so? I suppose I'm not too different, except I seek something for the Stormcloaks,” Svogre grinned.  
“Then let us travel together through Raldbthar, as we did in Sightless Pit, when we cleared out the Falmer several years ago.”  
“Aye! We’ll travel together!”

 

* * * * * * *

 

They retreated into the ruin not long after, smothering the fire with snow and resting inside the first chamber. The Dwemer ruins were winding and crumbled, filled with enough bones of dead adventurers, bandits and fugitives. The spider workers had kept themselves and the Dwarven Spheres in perfect working condition. Svogre was glad to have his mettle tested once more with the Orc Companion by his side, the creations of the long-dead Dwemer no match for them as they pushed through to the depths of the ruin.

“You’re going deep in the ruin for something, Svogre,” Uramulg grunted, crashing his Warhammer right through a Sphere.

“Aye!” Svogre hacked through a Spider. “I’m going down to Blackreach. Apparently there’s something valuable down there, we could use to beat the Empire and the Thalmor once and for all!”  
“Is that so?” the Orc hefted the hammer onto a shoulder, turning to face the Nord. “It wouldn’t perhaps be from an old Nord’s journal, would it?”

Svogre stopped wiping the dwarven oil off his axe, surprise clear on his face. “Aye… how did you know?”

Uramulg nodded thoughtfully. “I believe I may have a journal by the same Nord. Thonro, his name was.”  
“Thonro the Dragonborn,” Svogre agreed, about to add more.

But the ominous sound of metal and steam heaving, scraping and stamping warned the pair of a greater threat to their safety: two Dwarven Centurions hissing furious steam.

 

* * * * * * *

 

_5E799, Blackreach_

Iingae shuddered as she inhaled, the magelight hovering above her when she knelt to examine the two journals again. She had opened them to an incomplete sketch, putting them together to find a drawing of a building of sorts deep within Blackreach. She looked up, her eyes wide as she took it all in. Iingae nodded to herself: she was definitely where she was supposed to be: one of these buildings would guide her to whatever it was she needed to find, to prevent her prophecy from fulfilling.

She closed the journals, tucking one into her satchel.

The soft flex of a glass bow sounded nearby, impossible to hear if she hadn't been Bosmer. “Hands where I can see them,” a deep, richly accented voice commanded, quiet and unyielding. “Turn around, explain what you're doing here.”

Iingae slowly turned her head, holding the second journal as she prepared an offensive spell. Her breath hitched in her throat as she stood slowly, keeping her open palm outstretched. The man steps to the edge of her magelight, revealing he is a Redguard. His eyes narrow as he focuses on her journal. “You also have one of those?” he murmured.

Iingae blinked. “You, the journal…. You have one as well?” she stammered.  
The Redguard looked up to her face, his gaze calm but piercing. “Yes, I do,” he admits.  
Iingae nods shakily. “Then we should talk – mine mention a group of people are needed to achieve a goal, and that we cannot succeed alone,” she offers.

The Redguard studies her for a moment. “You speak as if you have more than one.”  
Iingae hesitates, her mind working quickly. Honesty might kill her, but it might also save her. She takes a deep breath to steady her racing heart. “I may have more than one. My name is Iingae, what’s yours?”  
The Redguard eyes her curiously. “Jartodea,” he says, lowering his bow but keeping it nocked. “I have two journals.”  
Iingae sighs softly, her shoulders slumping in relief. “I also have two.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

Tsabhi hid in the shadows, her eyes another pair of blinking blue orbs in a cavern full of glowing blue. Her armour dark and snug, helping her blend in as she eavesdropped. _One must always know more before one acts, especially here and now,_ Tsabhi sniffed the air, watching the pair from her shadowed perch.

“Yes, I do,” the Redguard speaks softly.  
“Then we should talk,” the Bosmer-girl speaks quickly, full of fear. “Mine mention a group of people are needed to achieve a goal, and that we cannot succeed alone!”

Tsabhi slinked back, looking around her for more enemies. The ruins had proven challenging with all the Falmer and the chaurus and the Dwemer-man-machines. “There is much more to this than this one realized… this one will watch more before this Silencer will decide to speak or silence those she watches,” she purred, hiding deeper in the shadows and crawling closer. The two have finished their talk, for now.

A third joins the not-friends-not-enemies group, tall and dressed in black and gold. Always ready with a sneer, yes – Tsabhi sees he is a Justiciar of the Thalmor, or at least one of their agents. The Redguard draws his bow with a backward step, the Bosmer holding a summon-from-Oblivion spell in her hands.

“Oh, please – do _either_ of you really think you’ll succeed against me?” he sneers. “Calm down; you will both die here if you attack me.”

Tsabhi giggled silently.

“Do – do you also have a… _journal_ …? Written by Thonro?” the she-Bosmer asked their newest member.

“Tsabhi sees you are surprised, Justiciar,” she nodded to herself.

“Yes, I do have a journal by the Nord. That is why you two are here as well, I may presume?” he drawled, his expression superior but lightly questioning.  
“Well… it seems that all three of us have journals, so far,” the Bosmer speaks quietly, almost as if she feared being noticed. The Redguard lowered his bow. Tsabhi strained to hear more. “I’m Iingae, this is Jartodea.”  
“Justiciar Rumarene,” the Altmer declares. Iingae reeks of fear to this Tsabhi, Jartodea frowns and the Khajiit nearly hissed out loud. _The_ Ondolemar’s son. “Now that introductions are out of the way, we need to discuss a more important point, the fact that my father knew Thonro, years ago notwithstanding.”

Tsabhi looked on curiously: he had immediately taken charge of the group. A leader, never a follower. He had everyone’s attention.

“What exactly is happening, that we need to stop? And why is it only happening _now_ , of all the times?”

Tsabhi raised her brows, impressed. Yes, this Justiciar was clever, very clever. _This one will join the party, yes. It is worth this one’s time._ She stands up, leaping over her hiding place and startling the group.

She purr-growled at the hiss of magic spells readied, and bows-draw. “Peace, hairless-tailless ones! This one bears another journal,” she held it as she raised her hands, stepping into the light. “This one agrees with your feelings, cub-of-Ondolemar. This one merely wishes to know what is happening, then return to what this Tsabhi does best,” she gestured at her armour.

Tsabhi turned to look at the faces of those gathered, recognising the Redguard. “Ah! You are the one this one uses as a fence! It is good to see one this one can trust more-than-nothing!”

The group relaxed a little, spells discharging and weapons relaxed. Tsabhi raised her head at a moving magelight, opening her mouth.

“Blessed Mara, it’s a PARTY!” a young, excitable voice shouted pleasantly.

Tsabhi stepped closer, no-one bothering to raise their weapons this time. A short Breton-priestess sauntered along, bouncing a magelight in one hand and walking with a staff in the other. “Are you my companions on this journey? I hope so! You seem like a wonderful group of people to go on an adventure with! You _do_ all have a journal, right?” she babbled, her magelight rising above her head as she whipped out a journal, waving it briefly before tucking it back into a bag. “Excellent! I can see you recognize it! Mother Mara came to me in a vision! Told me a little bit about a man named Thonro, and how he –” she babbled on.

Rumarene exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose as he turned away from the group, muttering something with a scowl. Iingae stared in confusion. Jartodea stared blankly.

Tsabhi blinked many times, making sure she wasn’t on Moon Sugar or Skooma.

“So, we _all_ have journals?” Iingae checked, flinching when Rumarene glared at her.

“Ay-yup!” the Breton pops the ‘p’. “I’m Surani! Also, I’m fairly sure I heard an Orc and a Nord along the way, but I didn’t stop to check. Might’ve been a terribly good Dwemer construction. Or they might have been trouble, but I’m not here to fight! I’m here to spread love, and peace! After all, that’s what our Mother Mara wishes upon us all!”

Tsabhi hissed, her ears pressed flat against her skull. “This one has no need for the love or preaching you bring!”

Jartodea turned to look at Tsabhi, then threw his head back and guffawed.

 

* * * * * * *

 

They decided to wait and see if the Orc and Nord were to be members of their party, and Surani was ecstatic when they warily approached, welcoming them to party when they reluctantly admitted to possessing journals. An Imperial Legate joined them soon after, and Surani looked at the group proudly. Everyone had introduced themselves, again.

“I guess we’re the ones to save the world this time around. I’m thrilled to be here!” she announced, her head bobbing happily.

Rumarene sneered at Svogre and Malpen. “I see the Empire is as incompetent as always, still allowing primitive _apes_ with false gods to escape across the country.”  
“What did you say, inbred Falmer?” Svogre spat, hefting his axe.  
“Oh, look – there’s the proof. Incomprehension of civilised language and a cumbersome tool to settle disputes,” Rumarene shot back.

Malpen stepped forwards. “The Legion is _not_ incompetent, Justiciar. Perhaps you should send some of the Thalmor’s soldiers to aide us, as we _are_ your charges.”  
“Back off, Milk-Drinker! You’re the reason they rule over us!”  
“Leave the events of the Fourth Era in the Fourth Era! If you want to help, stop raiding Skyrim and start fighting _with_ the Empire!” Malpen frowned deeply, taking a step back when Svogre shoved him away.

“As if the races of Men could ever muster up the will and the intelligence to declare war against the Aldmeri Dominion! We’d crush you as we did before.”

Iingae stared wide-eyed and terrified, shrinking into Tsabhi next to her.

Surani watched the exchange, leaning on her staff. “Okay, I understand. There are some tensions between you three. That’s good! Thalmor, Stormcloak and Legion have joined! We can work out the differences!” she called over the argument.

“If the Legion actually _was_ competent, Legate, you wouldn’t need our help,” Rumarene smirked, pleasure shining in his eyes when Malpen backed away. “And with such pale skin and hair, I’d say _you_ are the ‘milk-drinker’, Nord.”  
“How _dare_ you, you filthy –”

“We need to be _friends!_ ” Surani continued more loudly. “Brotherhood and friendship are so important in this world of difficulty and strife!”

“– knife-eared daedra worshipper! You and your father are two causes of the worst crimes we had to suffer!”  
“I can’t recall what I’ve ever done to you, then again, your kind isn't memorable.” Rumarene leaned back to appraise the Nord. “With your bulbous noses, round ears and primitive thinking, it’s a wonder you can do more than grunt.”

Svogre turned red with fury, holding his battle axe out to Uramulg, throwing off his gauntlets. “We’ll settle this like Nords!”

Iingae whimpered, Malpen frowned. Tsabhi and Jartodea watched curiously.

Rumarene laughed. “Lacking the intelligence to form a valid argument leads you to choose your fists. I doubt even _apes_ do this.”

“We’re all here to make friends!” Surani shifted. “Put the past behind us! start afresh! With love and peace in our hearts!”

“You don’t even know what you come to find here, do you measly runt?” Svogre hissed, snarling in Rumarene's face. “And why do you even care? You have no regard for Nord culture, you cu–”

“Whoa! Easy on the language!” Surani shouted, holding up her hands. Uramulg frowned deeply at Svogre, and the Nord looked bashful for a moment. Iingae shivered, nearly yelping when Malpen touched her arm and pulled her away from the wolves in this pack.

The little Breton straightened to her impressively small height, hefting her staff up higher as the insults grew more colourful. “Come on, now! We’re all supposed to be _friends_ –” she growled, accentuating it by clubbing Svogre solidly on the back of his head with her staff, sending him sprawling to the ground. “Brothers in _arms_!” she snarled, thwacking Rumarene just as he sniggered. The Altmer was only slightly more graceful.

Iingae let out a startled cry, her hands shaking while she cast an area Calm spell.

Malpen huffed with a wry grin: both the elf and the Nord were reeling from the hit.

“So, are you two going to make up and be friends, or should I hit you again?” Surani asked, taking up a combat stance and hefted the staff higher. “I _did_ tell you to be friends. So, answer me. What will it be?”

Rumarene and Svogre glare at each other as they straighten, turning the full force of their glares to the tiny Breton before looking away.

A chuckle distracts everyone. “Ah, this Tsabhi likes you, Priestess! This one likes you – a lot.”

Surani blinked, then beamed. “I’m glad! See? We’ll all be the best of friends by the time we’ve saved the world!” she skips over to Tsabhi.

Uramulg hauled Svogre to his feet, and Rumarene brushed away the hand Jartodea offered, standing unsteadily on his own. Uramulg shot a worried look at Surani's mood swing, sharing the look with Malpen and Jartodea.

Iingae looked green and close to tears at Rumarene's scowl and Svogre’s muttered cursing and scoffing.

“You shall become accustomed to it,” Tsabhi patted Iingae's shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> Dovahzul Translations:  
> Krii, lun AUS Kill, Leech, Suffer (Marked for Death Shout)  
> Joor, zah FRUL Mortal, Finite, Temporary (Dragonrend Shout)  
> Joorre, zu’u fen krii hi pah! Zu’u fen du lein! Du Keizaal! Mortals, I will kill you all! I will devour the world! Devour Skyrim!  
> Strun, qo BAH Storm, Wrath, Lightning (Storm Call Shout)  
> Lok, vah KOOR Sky, Spring, Summer (Clear Skies Shout)  
> Yol, toor SHUL Fire, Inferno, Sun (Fire Breath Shout)  
> Nahl, daal VUS Living, Return, Nirn (Tsun’s Shout)  
> Geh, lokaliin do Dovahkiin Yes, lover of the Dragonborn  
> Lok, Thu’um, Dovahkiin Sky above, Voice within (Farewell), Dragonborn  
> Pruzah wundunne Good travels (Farewell)  
> Aaz hah so! Lok, thu’um! Dovahkiin! Pruzah wundunne! Drem, Dovahkiin! Mercy, Mind, Sorrow (expression of sorrow (courtesy of Thuum<.>org)! Sky above, Voice within! Dragonborn! Good travels! Peace, Dragonborn


End file.
